


carry a crown

by isolationist



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, canon-typical incest, mentions of past éclair tonnerre/suoh tamaki and past fujioka haruhi/suoh tamaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isolationist/pseuds/isolationist
Summary: They build reputation. They build infamy. They build something grander together than Kyouya first thought possible.(on being ootori kyouya, on meeting suou tamaki, on falling in love, and on quiet acts of resistance.)
Relationships: Ootori Kyouya/Suoh Tamaki
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	carry a crown

**Author's Note:**

> i prefer to put my notes at the end, but i wanted to make some clarifying statements for this work before we begin. this story can best be described as a canon* au / genreswap retelling of ‘and so kyouya met him’, utilising a lot of dialogue either directly or paraphrased in the first of the three acts.
> 
> i will also, despite already tagging for it, add this **_warning:_** the relationship between the hitachiin twins is implied as potentially not just being for show, but not more descriptive than anything already in canon takes place.
> 
> * mainly anime canon 

### ACT ONE. on becoming an ‘and’; to go beyond

> “There are men who seem born to be the opposite, the reverse, the counterpart. They are Pollux, Patroclus, Nisus, Eudamidas, Ephestion, Pechmeja. They live only on condition of leaning on another; their names are sequels, only written preceded by the conjunction “and”; their existence is not their own; it is the other side of a destiny not their own.”  
>  — Victor Hugo

Ootori Kyouya is the third son. In a society built on strict hierarchies, on clearly defined paths regarding who is able to succeed and to what level, his existence is one of those who is never allowed to even know what their full potential is. What it could be, what it could reach.

If anyone knew the feelings he had — if anyone believed him able of such a thing, in the first place, if there was a chance of something other than a dark shrivelled piece of rotten flesh beating in his chest then they would never believe what he carried inside of it. It was simpler to act as though it didn’t exist, and once he was far enough gone it was easy to believe even for himself. Maybe his heart had depricated, or frozen over and shattered. 

The deviant, the failure. He is set up to play a losing game. Kyouya is not going to let that stop him. 

Suou Tamaki has no right, none at all, to comment as freely, to act as though he has seen through all the parts of Kyouta that exist. Kyouya has never known true fury like he has at Suou’s words. At the insinuation, at the nerve of the forgetfulness. It adds insult where insult had already been given. 

He looks into violet blue eyes, their colour far too distinct to be compared to skies or seas or anything of the sort, and thinks that they would look better with a different expression. Angry. Upset. Like he wants to punch Kyouya, just as badly as Kyouya wants to shove him to the ground and— and— and grip that neck between his hands, banging his head onto the hard surface beneath it. Repeatedly. 

A bastard, in every sense of the world, the illegitimate mongrel of a half-breed, with his obviously foreign colouring. He has the girls charmed, taken by his exotic looks, and all the boys charmed in their own way, in that way that comes with being someone ineffably social and in such a powerful position; Suou possesses a certain _savoir faire_. People are attracted to Suou in every sense of the word. It seems to be the natural order of the universe, something that can simply not be debated.

Any man would envy him for those things. Kyouya has his own brand of degenerate envy aimed at Suou though. It isn’t anything that any of his classmates are in on. Those thoughts are Kyouya’s alone. He swallows down this pride, this fury, locking it carefully deep inside. Suou Tamaki is a perceptive fool, at once prince and jester in this court and at stage, playing both roles with ease. 

Fuyumi is kind and compassionate and all of those things Kyouya can’t seem to find in either himself or his brothers or father. There is guilt though, in the thought that maybe he likes her best because she isn’t competition. She never has been, on grounds of being female. Fuyumi likely got the chance to develop these softer qualities because of that. Or, she is just the ideal and perfect daughter their father wants, pushed into playing a role just like the rest of them; the only difference being that she’s the Ootori family’s daughter. 

She rummages through his drawers and it makes his temper tick. What she’s looking to find there, he never knows, and his words don’t seem to deter her at all. 

“My, my, my, Kyouya-san,” she says, and it would maybe sound polite or like he’s a stranger to anyone else, but it’s the closest thing to a nickname he’s ever had from a family member. 

Ootori Kyouya is the third son. He’s also the fourth child. He is nine years younger than the sibling closest to him in age. He knows from childhood that he was unplanned, a mistake. That they likely had thought his mother too old to bear more children, foolishly, unsightly, no matter how they pretend like it had been a planned pregnancy. Ootori Yoshio did not make mistakes. 

So Kyouya keeps his voice calm. “Fuyumi-neesan, please don’t rummage through my drawers.”

“Kyouya-san, you stuff too much clothes into them, you can’t get them back in once you take something out,” she complains in turn, merriment and worry somehow coexisting in her behaviour as she frets. The pile of clothes grows larger, yet the drawer never seems emptier. 

It’s a bad metaphor. Kyouya hates that he finds it amusing. That’s why they shouldn’t be opened, why there shouldn’t be attempts to unravel what was inside. The homework lying on the table gets to take precedence as she shuffles about, quietly making small noises at how she can’t seem to fix the mess. _Leave it for the maids_ , he tells her, just as he does every time this happens. He suspects that Fuyumi will ignore it, until she can’t.

They travel across the country on excursions that barely even make a dent in either of their pocket money. They follow Kyouya’s suggestion to go through Suou’s ludicrous wish-list of locations in order. They begin with Kyoto as it had ranked the highest and it is a fairly easy trip to plan for — apparently Kyouya is to play travel guide for all this and make the arrangements, but he finds it a more productive use of his energy than what being around Suou in other contexts entail.

Since it’s only for the weekend, there is a limited time to what they can physically endeavour to go through, and that is a blessing in disguise. Kinkakuji Temple is a given and Suou spends enough time photographing the building that the memory card fills up before they even make it to Ryoanji’s rock garden or Kifune Shrine and the picturesque red lanterns that line the stairs, or Fushimi Inari-taisha’s vermilion torii gates.

The seasons change almost imperceptibly, weeks turning into months, as their vacations happen again and again and again and again. Suou-kun has endless ideas and whimsies, and Kyouya has to run multiple trains of thought simultaneously to keep up with him. It isn’t a struggle, but somehow he feels like he’s running just a step behind Suou.

For their first longer holiday, they go to Okinawa together. He brings Suou to the Ootori family’s house with the private beach, allowing them a quiet abode to relax. With the large house to themselves they can both spend time together and have it feel like time alone. There’s a hum of music coming from the guest room he has Suou stay in, leaking out over the veranda and onto the beach. It’s almost disconcerting how much less Suou’s energy bothers him by now, a constant buzz he can filter out and only tune back in to when he picks up on words that carry a modicum of pertinence. 

When Suou spots him he waves at Kyouya with a blindingly bright and dazzling smile on his lips. The motion catches his eye. 

His hands are elegant, Kyouya thinks, the realisation coming to him when Suou shows off the Shisa he had found. They’re probably of a similar broadness when compared to his own, but the fingers appear long and thin as they grip the statuette.

Suou apologises to his selfish requests when Kyouya explains that some things just aren’t possible.

“It’s no use asking you. Sorry. I overestimated your abilities,” Suou says. It is an insult more cruel than any other. 

Ootori Kyouya doesn’t disappoint. He doesn’t fall short. He isn’t overestimated. 

Suou mopes, like a child a decade younger than his fifteen, the very picture of the spoilt heir and prince. Kyouya seethes. He will show Suou, one up him, no matter what ridiculousness he comes with next time. Ootori Kyouya excels in hospitality. He is polite. He is agreeable. 

Hokkaido, Suou mentions. The bastion fort, Goryoukaku, Kyouya remembers him mentioning earlier. 

Kyouya has to quell the anger at the thought of another holiday across the country, but reminds himself of his father’s words. It wouldn't hurt to be friends with Suou; be nice to your allies, be nicer yet to your enemies. The Okinawan sun warms his skin, and burning anger simmers below the surface. He will show Suou. 

Hair a golden crown;

a halo, on fire in the sun.

Kyouya begins planning the moment he comes home for their trip to Hokkaido, only to have his proposal shut down in the most flippant manner possible; the fool that bears the name Suou Tamaki by some means has forgotten what he said the week before. 

“Your friend is here,” Fuyumi says as she leads him inside. The word sounds strange. Kyouya never has friends over. Never has them, at all.

There are relationships as far as appearances are concerned, but no one who would truly call him a friend either. Acquaintances, perhaps. Mutually beneficial relations, absolutely. Kyouya attends social gatherings and visits when proper, joins in when their class holds events, but never once would that be taken as something deep. Absolutely, there would be someone who thinks it can be called friendship, this which they have with him, but even then they know there is no closeness. 

Kyouya pauses; the momentary lapse in conversation as he racks his mind for a reply gives him enough time for him to wonder? realise? hope? whom it may be Fuyumi is indicating to be visiting.

“Friend?”

It can be no other than Suou. Fuyumi leads him inside, not answering his question. Kyouya doesn’t ask for confirmation. 

The sound of piano music is delicate, coming down the hallway like the pitter-patter of children’s feet across hardwood floor, reverberating akin to a distant memory. 

Kyouya drops his bag to the ground. They stand in the doorway, just barely entering the room. The piano was Fuyumi's, his mother's, never his area of expertise. He can’t place the tune. Something Chopinesque is as close to what he’s able to conjure. 

“It's so lovely,” Fuyumi says, her light voice quiet as to not disturb the scene, just slightly shaky, “tears just keep coming out.”

On some level he's conscious that his brothers are seated side by side on one of the sofas enthralled as they watch, to them, a stranger play the piano. The both of them moved to tears, too. He’s unable to recall the last time someone played something on this piano. 

Tamaki is a vision of light — backlit by the sun outside, casting his golden hair in an ethereal glow. His expression has calmed into something gentle and his long fingers move across the piano keys unhurried and with almost intimate knowledge, a skill so well trained it has become natural. 

Kyouya is pulled out of his stupor only to feel matching wetness on his own cheeks. 

One of the staff comes by at what must be Fuyumi's behest, leaving a tray with a teapot and cups, steaming liquid already served when it arrives. It sits untouched on the table before them. Kyouya put as much room between them as possible when he sat down, body angled away from Tamaki.

“Sorry for coming by so suddenly,” Tamaki says. 

_Then go home if you really think that way_. Kyouya’s expression twists into a dark glare for a moment, before he catches himself. He speaks, no less agitated, but with a polite facade in place again, “What happened with studying for exams? You okay with that?”

Tamaki carries on with the conversation as though he hasn’t heard a word Kyouya said. “Your house sure is large! I wonder which one’s bigger, your house or my house in France?”

A vein on Kyouya’s forehead ticks, and before he can stop himself he’s glaring when he peers at Tamaki again. Is he trying to be sarcastic? The answer is obvious: Kyouya knows nothing about Tamaki’s life in France, but the Suou estate he knows from visits is far larger than the Ootori home. Perchance, were Tamaki to see the expression on Kyouya's face now he would at last understand how unwelcome he truly was. What is the point in hiding the ugly? Kyouya smiles, and it is a hairbreadth from the mien he employs normally. Acidic, would be the best word for both it and his words.

“I don't know about your house in France, but the Suou estate is obviously larger.” 

Tamaki chuckles at that. 

“Well, I don't know since I've never entered the main mansion. The second mansion is much smaller,” he replies. Tamaki is smiling as he divulges this information about himself; information that Kyouya's background search said nothing of. To be caught unaware leaves him off kilter, a feeling furthered when Tamaki turns the next question back to focus on Kyouya.

“So, are you succeeding the Ootori family in the future, Kyouya?”

Kyouya's hackles are raised again — is this intentional, what is Tamaki aiming for? A fight? His mind flashes with the images conjured by his mind in the past. Of giving into the urge to shove or punch or pull at Tamaki, until he ceases to be a bother, no longer invoking conflicting feelings in Kyouya of loathing and something unnamable, something unexplored— something that… something that Kyouya refuses to acknowledge, more resolutely than anything else. 

“Of course not,” Kyouya says. Kyouya manages to constrain his smile into something softer and more pleasant again. This is familiar ground. “You saw it, I have two older brothers. I'll be working under them.” 

Ootori Kyouya is the third son. This is the life he has been granted. This is the role he has to fill. An addendum, a last minute addition, setting carefully managed plans at risk were he ever to stand out too much. 

“Oh, I didn't expect that,” Tamaki says. There seems to be a note of genuine surprise to it and Kyouya is unable to hold back a small quiet sound of surprise himself at that. “I thought you were a much more ambitious person, because your eyes tell me that you're completely dissatisfied with your current situations, right?”

Again, that feeling of Tamaki having seen straight through him — all his efforts having been for naught, the practiced expressions transparent in the face of this golden child. Kyouya's desire to stand at the top could be likened to modern day fratricide, no less messy but a lot less bloody. 

“You sure give up easily,” says Tamaki then.

“It's not an issue of giving or not giving up.” Kyouya's clenched fists tremble where they rest atop his thighs. “That's just the way it is. I guess someone that will automatically succeed his family like you wouldn't understand.”

Tamaki’s eyes go round.

This slip up can only be blamed on Kyouya himself, and he curses himself mentally for it, his mind working furiously to create an excuse with just enough plausible deniability that Tamaki won’t decide to make him an active enemy. 

Tamaki speaks again. “It's still not decided that I'd succeed the Suou family. My grandmother hates me. This is like a trial period.”

His words cause Kyouya to pause, eyes widening in surprise. He glances at Tamaki from the corner of his eye, head following slowly. He can't understand how Tamaki can speak so freely about the humiliating uncertainty he lives his life in. Had Tamaki actually meant it, when he declared them friends that first day of school?

“I didn't mention this to you?”

He hadn’t. Kyouya would have remembered if Tamaki had ever spoken of any of it as this was the type of information he stored and categorised his world in; faintly, he fears that Tamaki had mentioned it but that he had missed it, being too caught up in Tamaki’s pace to recognise them for what they were. 

The simmering emotion boils over, the latent fury growing into something so large it can not be contained in a skinny teenage body any longer, when Tamaki once begins to go through all the options he would be able to pursue were he not to inherit. The appalling ingratitude of his demeanor has Kyouya push the table to its side, grabbing Tamaki’s shirt and throwing him to the ground, crawling up over a ridiculous length of jean clad legs.

The teacups clatter. Tea seeps into the carpet. None of that is on Kyouya’s mind. 

“You're not like me! You have the chance to go to the top if you try hard, so why don't you try harder?! Why don't you take advantage of the fortunate circumstances you're born to?”

Kyouya has unspoken confidence that he is equal, or superior, to his brothers in terms of ability. Kyouya knows that he is to exist within the constraints this frame poses to him. For the first time in his life, someone has not just seen what Kyouya carries inside, but they've acknowledged it. Encouraged it. 

His hands are still fisting Tamaki’s shirt and in a split-second the thought to press his lips to Tamaki’s flashes through his mind like a spark of electricity, all too sudden aware of how much of their bodies are touching and the position they’re in, but it’s all lost to the vastness of the other emotions at war inside of him. 

“You're the one who isn't trying harder. If you want to surpass your brothers, then do so.”

Suou Tamaki with the looks of an angel, with the heart in romance and rebellion and revolution; _I please_ , his everyday expressions say, but there is a light in his eyes that flashes just ever so briefly that shows him aware that he has to play a long game for the tide to turn in his favour. He, who understands none of Kyouya’s more egregious lines of thought, the way his neural pathways are hardwired into something unlikeable and cold.

Idiot of idiots, the king of fools. And yet, Tamaki is terribly intelligent. He has seen through Kyouya so unequivocally, but more than that, Tamaki has seen through him and not turned away. He invites it, cajoles Kyouya to be what lurks beneath the surface. He should suffer for it, Kyouya thinks, feeling almost manic as he laughs. 

Like any other human being, Kyouya wears masks. No one cares to see beyond them in their world. Yet, Tamaki smiles at him from where he half lays on the floor beneath Kyouya. 

The second Suou estate is indeed a fair bit smaller than the Ootori estate. 

Kyouya exhales. The pillowcase beneath his cheek is creased, probably leaving unsightly red marks on his skin from how heavily he rests against it and half burrows his face against it. He can not have Tamaki look at his face, not now. Not like this. He wonders if he’ll ever feel alright having Tamaki look at his face after this. 

Not even that thought is enough to tell him to stop though, even when it makes his throat constrict to something painful and tight. He burns with desire for this, for being eaten alive. Kyouya is greedy. He always wants more than he can have.

His hips shift, his hardness caught between his lower stomach and the bed, and he spreads his legs slightly wider in what he hopes comes across as inviting. He needs Tamaki to get a move on. To stop his attempts of it being something more, something sensual or intimate, or worse yet loving. 

Tamaki touches him with tenderness that feels like a violence in itself. It is a force so strong it unleashes something unknown, something uncalibrated, something uncontrollable in Kyouya; he panics, needs to get away, but in his position all that does for him is move his hips into the mattress or push him closer to Tamaki’s body. He doesn’t actually want to rid himself of Tamaki pressed to him, of the gentle hands, but something inside him lurches uncomfortably. The breath he inhales is deep, shuddering, something almost like a dry sob. He hopes Tamaki won’t notice, even when Tamaki briefly stills above him.

Then, comes the words. 

“Are you alright?” Tamaki asks, because he’s Tamaki and so strangely perceptive, seeing through people when they least want it.

And Kyouya has to say yes, again, more than he’s trying to already show with his body so he won’t have to say the word and revel in his own degradation once more. His mouth feels dry. 

_Yes_ , Kyouya says, muffled by the pillow, _now keep going_ , because he has to make sure Tamaki doesn’t stop entirely. He won’t beg. He won’t say please. He doesn’t need to, because there has to be something in how he says it that makes Tamaki shift closer.

Then, closer again. The wet drag of Tamaki’s cock against his thigh, the wet fingers that come between his cheek and slowly work their way in. The touch is too kind, nervousness permeating Tamaki’s movement an attestation that this is real to Tamaki too, but there’s also a slight burn that Kyouya doesn’t know if he wants to escape or if he wants more of. 

“Kyouya, I’ve come up with a great idea,” Tamaki says, “Let’s establish a club.”

### ACT TWO. vive le roi

> “Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
>  These, our bodies, possessed by light.”  
>  — Richard Siken

They build reputation. They build infamy. They build something grander together than Kyouya first thought possible, yet had so keenly picked up upon when listening closer to Tamaki’s words that afternoon by the kotatsu. 

Tamaki has picked his choices in hosts well. Kyouya had not taken part in the recruitment phase, that realm being much more in line with Tamaki's skillset anyhow. He understands the market with a natural grace, and as with all businesses — where there is a demand, there is profit to be made.

A host club. Offering their company to women, and the few stray men brave enough, or foolish enough to think that associating with the Ouran Host Club might up their own influence. Those are easy enough to see straight through. Money is money though, and if they’re willing to pay the fees for foolishness then who is Kyouya to stop them. At least not for that all important first time.

It is a success. 

Of course, everything Tamaki undertakes is to be such a thing, as everlastingly victorious as he is winsome.

Of course, it wouldn’t be if not for Kyouya managing the details behind the scenes — and indeed sometimes out in the open, too. Light reflects off his glasses. Kyouya allows himself a private smile, something so different from what he offers the public.

Another week, another whimsy. The expenses are high for such frivolity; another dress party, another costume ball, another themed event, all with individual and unique costumes lest they desire to have the twins match or just be complementary. Costume design and tailoring is expensive. Catering is expensive. Of course it is, there is no other way to treat paying customers. 

Ouran Private Academy is defined by two things: prestigious families, and wealth. This leads to a situation of prosperous people having too much time on their hands. Therefore, the Ouran Host Club is about these handsome guys, who have time, giving hospitality to these lovely ladies, who also have time. It's an elegant game unique to this super rich school.

The theme of the night is the Greek mythos, gods and demi-gods and humans and whatnot all together, and no clear cut roles defined for the occasion. _Make me the greatest of them all, the most glorious_ , Tamaki had required at first, with all his usual flair. _Make me the god of love!_

Kyouya was tempted to make him Zeus — indeed the mightiest, the king of gods, and lovers he had aplenty. One of the girls in his Greek class of last year would have sniggered in the way Kyouya wouldn’t have allowed himself. Tamaki hadn’t done anything of late to deserve such treatment though. 

Narcissus, Kyouya thinks, as he watches Tamaki interact with the guests. The easy laughter, the carelessly spun webs of compliments that half the time served only to uplift himself. The girls opened their wallets as fast as their hearts, and he knew more than a few of them would open their legs just as quick too. The small voice in the back of his mind reminds him that he’s not all too different from them.

Kyouya focuses on his notepad. 

Their fellow hosts seem to be enjoying themselves and offering their company too, of sharing their time with pretty girls. One of the Hitachiin boys has his toga dangerously close to slipping off his shoulder, baring more skin than strictly necessary as he leans into the embrace of his brother at the most awkward angle. 

It had taken a bit more to arrange for the utmost necessity of wine being served, they were offering an authentic experience after all, and Tamaki had a somewhat more lax attitude from the cultural differences of having grown up in France, allowed to indulge in drink in the presence of his guardian. From Tamaki’s stories, his mother didn’t seem like she would have offered anything like what they are aiming for tonight, but at a feast in the Gods’ honour, celebrating life and vivacious youth and love it was only fitting that wine would flow. 

Kyouya doesn’t drink himself, not beyond tasting it earlier to ensure it was fit to serve, because someone has to make sure that arrangements can be made in case any of their guests are . Tamaki’s already grand body language grows wider, larger, more excited; the words slipping off his lips silkily smooth and a just slightly slurred edge as he leans too close.

“Tamaki,” Kyouya warns, when the whispers come dangerously close to being kisses, only just barely still able to pass for something less despite the repeated brushing of skin. Tamaki only laughs, jovial, and he catches Kyouya’s eyes for a fleeting moment before returning to entertaining. Kyouya tries not to think of those lips on his own neck, on wet breaths against his skin. Hopefully, Tamaki isn’t thinking of that either.

Albeit Fuyumi’s engagement having gone splendidly thus far, smooth sailing as the man she is to be wedded to is someone she holds affections for, she keeps shooting him worried little glances. Kyouya believes she thinks he doesn’t understand or see them.

There is no one Kyouya believes deserves a life she's content with more than Fuyumi. There are no happy endings, so he can't particularly say he wishes that for her, but he wants her to not be unhappy at the least. Something happier than their parents' marriage was, something better than Kyouya would ever have for himself.

Akito shoots him a dirty look, when he thinks Fuyumi isn't watching. "Watch whatever it is you're telling her. She should be happy."

Kyouya detests Akito for his lack of drive. That he won't fight. That he's content with the life he's been given. It's ironic, or perhaps simply contradictory, that he wants nothing more than for Fuyumi to be content with what life has been decided for her, but that his brother should strive for more. Being the second son is better than being third, though, he supposes. Akito leaves him with another warning glare, but says nothing more as he puts on a slightly more congenial expression when he faces the crowd.

As Fuyumi is his beloved older sister, she is also Yuichi and Akito's darling little sister. The Ootori family's princess.

Kyouya smiles gently, practised. No onlookers would ever be able to say the third Ootori son was anything but charming and polite. Kyouya is already aware his looks are praised over those of both his brothers, even though he thinks they all fit into different categories. He supposes he takes after their mother the most though. It lends itself to a different type of handsome, something more refined. Almost delicate, or pretty, when he allows his features to relax and soften. Kyouya is far from a narcissist, at least in regards to this matter, but he has studied his face from every angle extensively as he practised expressions in the mirror. He knows that objectively he's good looking.

That is also why Tamaki had asked him to join the Host Club, after all.

The sound of heels is barely noticeable over the buzz of the crowd, and he's a little surprised to see Fuyumi having escaped from her fiancé and the many congratulations they were still receiving at larger gatherings though the topic should be old news by now.

"Kyouya-san," Fuyumi says, "I'm glad you're here."

The Hitachiin boys; truth in fiction or life imitating art. Kyouya doesn’t care. Everything is a game to them. Whatever they’re doing though, it’s helping the club. Maybe it should be more disturbing to not know with certainty, if the rumours or the shows or something else entirely is what is real, but Kyouya is good at ignoring things that don’t matter. Sometimes he meets eyes with one of the twins, and he thinks he finds something almost akin to kinship or understanding. It’s strange. 

Tamaki is prattling off idea after idea, eventually becoming increasingly incoherent for how he leaves them unfinished before leaping into the next and never looking back; lest for the cases where he winds back where he started again, before the tangent had grown into an entity of its own.

The budget for Ouran Host Club comes with an endless amount of surprise expenses; the last in a long line being what was allotted for Haninozuka-senpai's sweets and cake slowly but steadily increasing.

"You don't have to overwork yourself," Tamaki says, draping his arms around Kyouya's shoulders in a loose embrace from behind. The perfect picture of domesticity. Kyouya's heart doesn't skip a beat, because he doesn't have one. His chest feels pinched and tight, heavy, like he doesn't get quite enough air.

"I enjoy--"

"Yes, yes," Tamaki says, his breath hot against Kyouya's ear, "but not for the sake of the club. Please."

"How else do you expect it to keep running," Kyouya replies, almost bored. He doesn't appreciate getting interrupted. He doesn't appreciate having his work devalued. The arms around his shoulders tighten, the embrace turning firmer. The selfish Suou Tamaki, so unaware of what he asks of others. They have to be two sides of the same coin.

"I apologise," Tamaki murmurs, "and thank you for your hard work. Let me show you how appreciative I am of your efforts."

One of his hands finds its way to Kyouya's trousers, fiddling with the button, as the other arm holds him close and pressed to Tamaki's chest. Kyouya has half a mind to tell him off, to push him away. The lure of Tamaki's siren song, of the promises in his voice, proves to be too much.

He closes his eyes. Waits for it to all wash over him, for Tamaki to get the button open and to push his hand down Kyouya's trousers. Maybe underwear too, at once, depending on his mood. To Kyouya's surprise, a flash of cold washes over him instead, the heat of Tamaki's body leaving him and the world feels as though it's spinning far too fast for a moment. Vertigo.

Kyouya opens his eyes to find Tamaki moving around him, pushing the chair back to make room for himself on the floor as he drops to his knees.

The revolts that are remembered as revolutions, and the revolutions that are remembered through history, are the ones that are victorious, as all of history is written by the victors — the victors synonymous with the affluent. With authority and influence. A failed insurgence is nothing more than a revolt to be quashed, eventually forgotten if not heralded as a victory in itself.

The usurping of power proclaimed is in human nature. To always strive higher, for more, or for change that wreaks through what is established. 

Lying on his stomach on the sofa in Kyouya’s bedroom, Tamaki flips the page, the quiet sound loud in the silence of the room. Kyouya appraises his notes from class, the dates and names so neatly printed in his own handwriting. 

The afternoon tea socials they hold daily becomes a staple with the guests. It's natural to have afternoon tea, after all, and why not do it with the company of handsome young men. The fantasy and the freedom of their own lives, however false, hides away a reality. Ouran is supposed to guide young minds to prove themselves as leaders, but the girls, now young women, also know that their futures also come with the promise of settling down with a suitable man. Why not play with the idea of a love on their own terms?

In a sense, they're nothing but fools, silly little girls who prefer to take the easy road.

"Kyouya-kun," his client says, a shy smile on her lips as she calls for his attention. Kyouya smiles politely at her, nothing too warm because he's heard that she wants the full effect of the cool type. He can offer that. A blush stains her cheeks.

The praise from their guests is nothing more than adulation. 

Months slip away in a series of events until it is time for a last theme party of the year, a Venetian masquerade in Italian Renaissance fashion. The third music room transforms into something, despite the falsity and blurred time period and movement, out of a Caravaggio painting in its new shroud — the effect best likened to chiaroscuro, to clair-obscur, darkness filling the space and embraced by drapes in heavy silk brocade and velvet. It should feel too small for the amount of guests they’ve ushered into the room, but the idea was for the event to be intimate and for the club’s patrons and at most a plus one regardless if a friend or a partner of their own. 

Mori-senpai adjusts the mask tied behind Honey-senpai's head, one knee on the ground to keep them at the same level. The flickering candle light casts a sheen across the fabric of his costume, the deeper than midnight blue coming alive. 

Kyouya will have to send his thanks and regards to the twins’ mother again, for her help with their costumes once again. She seems to delight in the Host Club’s shenanigans, providing aid in her area of expertise when time can be found.

The event goes splendidly. People trickle out of the music room, tittering about this and that, and Kyouya can look back at a year that seemingly came together in a delightful play of being able to flex his capabilities and honing his skills, and in building stronger foundations for the future between himself and other families. A budding strange fondness has developed, amongst their little group.

“What a year we’ve had, mon ami,” Tamaki says. It is just the two of them. Final exams are over, the last planned club activity of this school year finished. Tonight was perfect. The promise of exclusivity and intimacy, the new patrons signing up one by one, coming by to say _oh, Kyouya-kun, Ootori-kun, can we schedule something for the next semester_ almost apologetic to bother him as though that hadn’t been the aim of the function. Their tipsy giggles, lips reddened by make-up and wine both, clinging to their friends’ arms.

“Indeed,” Kyouya agrees. The solitude of the empty room embraces them, the darkness upping the intimacy. The world belongs to them, and he claims Tamaki’s lips before he can think of a reason not to. Quiet moans fill the room soon enough, Kyouya leaning over the piano bench, and he has every intention for this moment to be ingrained and remembered each time Tamaki takes a seat.

Then the girl comes along. Fujioka, so effortlessly cool and laid back. She doesn’t try, doesn’t play with appearances the way the rest of the world does, and for that she stands out. It’s not that Kyouya doesn’t understand the fascination; so many new and unknown variables introduced at once are sure to spike curiosity. Shorn hair and a blatant lack of vanity, no concern for how she’s regarded — she is the perfect match for someone as simple minded and heartbleedingly stupid as Tamaki. 

Kyouya sees it from the start. Before there’s anything to see. 

Kyouya has refused to be the supporting cast to others for years. For all that he knows that they’re viewed as Suou Tamaki and Ootori Kyouya, as a unit, he isn’t going to start now. 

An egoist running on avarice,

He kisses Tamaki, fervently, like he’s afraid to lose something even knowing that it never was his. 

### ACT THREE. and so, we

> “The misery and greatness of this world: it offers no truths, but only objects for love. Absurdity is king, but love saves us from it.”  
>  — Albert Camus

Five years later many things have changed. Love found, love lost, love at last returned. Kyouya busies himself with his studies, takes great pleasure in the crestfallen expressions of those who attempt to befriend the third Ootori son and the girls his father arranges marriage interviews with who somehow believe that they will be able to deal and mellow, placate, with the third Ootori son. Merit matters, but he can do more than allow himself a trophy wife because it’s expected of him.

Fuyumi looks at him with concern, when their father and brothers all rag on him for being so uncooperative, for toeing the line between pleasantly fake and rude rather than crossing it, because it would be so much easier to scold your adult son if he had actually done something to harm the family name.

_Look at Fuyumi_ , they say, _it was arranged but it was still a love match_. 

Yuichi is touted as an example of someone who fell in love with his wife over the years (when she bore him a son), Akito heralded for having been acquainted with his wife before the topic even came up. Bile rises in his throat. He has never told her, but he knows that Fuyumi knows why it’s impossible to find him a love match. Her expression grows increasingly worried. 

“Kyouya-san,” she says, voice cutting through the low hum of voices berating him. Kyouya pinches the bridge of his nose, just below where his glasses usually rest. 

“I allowed you here on one condition, Fuyumi,” his father says. 

Once more, he makes it clear that she now belongs to another family. As though it’s that simple to cut all ties that unite her with her own family into that of her husband’s. Maybe to the rest of them it would be. Not to Fuyumi, kind and considerate, brought up to care about the feelings of others. 

“I’m sorry, father,” Kyouya says in the silence that falls upon them all after his words. Not even their brothers speak. If he looked, would he find tears in Fuyumi’s eyelashes? “But I request that you cease your attempts to find me a wife.”

He looks. Fuyumi looks back, eyes a little wet but with no actual tears. Kyouya wonders what it would be like to be braver. In that split-second, he imagines that he makes a decision. That he says what’s on the tip of his tongue. _I’m interested in men._

Being the next patriarch of the Ootori family would be nothing more than a disappearing mirage, Kyouya knows that much, and he’s not sure if he can’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat or because the room has fallen quiet once more. What would his father say in return? Pretend like he hadn’t heard it? Would he get disowned on the spot? Would he be punished?

Kyouya has felt his father’s disappointment and wrath before. The stinging burn left behind. He moves his lips without actually saying the words aloud. _I’m interested in men_. His siblings are looking at their father. His father is not looking at him. 

Pretending is so easy. Looking contrite and complacent comes naturally. Kyouya bows his head, just slightly, in deference.

His father sighs. “You’re being difficult.”

Kyouya waits. No one else says anything. The clock ticks.

“Don’t believe this is on behest of your request,” Ootori Yoshio says, “but instead _know_ that it is because suitable matches will soon run out if this is to continue. You will marry once you graduate. No interview will be conducted.”

The shadow king lives up to his name, long after any school clubs have closed doors. 

Tamaki is in France and refusing to speak with anyone on the matter of anything.

“Kyouya-senpai, you need to talk with him,” Haruhi says, like she has any right to order him around. An amusing thought.

“I don’t need to do anything,” he says, kindly, with that smile that has rumours about it freezing hell over. If Tamaki wishes to isolate in France, to drive himself to madness or drink or the open arms of willing company willing to be disillusioned for a night or several until the magic wears off. Haruhi gears up to speak again. “I almost came out to my fa— family last week.”

“Senpai--”

“Thinking about it makes me want to be sick.”

He has never told Haruhi either, but she’s perceptive. They have a mutual understanding. She could never disappoint her own father, other than perhaps coming back from an overseas trip engaged to Suou Tamaki, but even that was something he doubted still bothered Ranka. Even less so since the whole thing had been called off. 

“When the time is right…” she starts, trailing off because she knows as well as him that it won’t ever be the right time with his father still alive. He wonders if either of his brothers would force him to cut ties with the family. If he is to be disowned, whenever the truth comes out. Kyouya has no doubt it will, eventually. There are things that can be kept hidden and secret forever, he can have a life in the shadows where no one were to catch on — especially if he were to take a wife. He looks at Haruhi. Her hair has changed again, to something longer than when they first met but shorter than the lengths she then grew it out too. It barely brushes her shoulders when straight, and her bangs are wispy.

“I’m sorry. You have your own issues,” Haruhi says. It feels almost like an insult. The acknowledgement of his humanity. The accusation that it is a failure, the insinuation that he can’t calmly control every situation. Haruhi is not so underhanded to attempt this type of manipulation but the comment chafes at pride he won’t ever rid himself of.

All whispers of resistance must start somewhere even if the origin can not always be ascertained. For Kyouya, that small flickering flame was lit years years ago by the sun himself, an Apollon promising him light to guide his steps. Since then a quiet revolution not yet rocking the ship, always precariously playing just on the right side of safe, has been brewing.

His search for Tamaki Suou yields few results. So, Kyouya’s search for someone else begins. René de Grantaine. 

“My father thinks you’re a bad influence,” Kyouya says. The bar isn’t as bad as he would have assumed, but he is surprised that Tamaki would willingly lower himself to drink wine this cheap. Perhaps that’s part of the ideal, of chasing after things just out of his reach. The infatuation with the impossibility of it all.

Tamaki’s smile turns genuine for a fleeting moment. “Still?” 

“He heard of your broken off engagement,” Kyouya offers as explanation, carefully taking in Tamaki’s face. The expression doesn’t dim any, but his smile freezes into that terribly ungenuine mien that Kyouya hasn’t seen in years. There’s no one to act for, to play it up, no one who knows Tamaki here as anything but René. 

Suou Tamaki, the king, head bent so low his crown has slipped down. Fallen from his head. Two broken off engagements are better than one broken off marriage though. May he find solace in that thought.

“Funny how my failures are more of an issue with your father, don’t you think? Eh, Kyouya.”

“Chairman Suou takes the matter lightly?”

Tamaki laughs. He’s loose-limbed but not yet loose-lipped with drink, his body relaxing as he sprawls carelessly in his seat. Suou Tamaki is a dichotomy of casualness and exaggerated melodramatics, both at once true and false. 

“Come back to Japan,” Kyouya says, and he wonders if Tamaki is able to hear the unspoken words in his tone. _With me_. Come back to Japan with me. 

“Come stay in France a little longer,” Tamaki replies, fingers intertwining with Kyouya’s even as they rest atop the table. Kyouya’s pulse speeds up. No one even turns to look. 

“The kids are worried,” Kyouya says then, not rising to Tamaki’s bait attempting to lead the conversation down a different route, merely continuing at his own digression. “At least reply to them when they call, or send a text.”

Tamaki is a fool. Too easily moved. His shoulders hunch deeper, head resting firmly in his palm. The wine is beginning to affect Kyouya, even though he’s been attempting to keep a steady and slow pace rather than get caught up in whatever Tamaki had going on. Slow warmth, slight sleepiness — though the latter may just be jetlag catching up at last. 

“Mother dearest,” Tamaki says, “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

Kyouya refills both their glasses with what is left of the wine. It would be easy to slip into the role, to smile politely like he would have were there anyone else of note around.

“Did I not just tell you?”

“Come with me,” Tamaki says, so open and in that precise moment, so painfully beautiful. Even in dim light and terrible deep shadows cast across his face, he’s mesmerising in a way that makes Kyouya feel sixteen again from how intoxicated he feels. How out of control he becomes when Tamaki smiles like that. It is not the smile he uses when he taps into the desires of girls, nor is it the bright childish one; it is the smile he uses when he dreams, or desires, the genuine and soft one, just a tad too true to read as shy.

“I assumed I would be staying with you before I returned,” Kyouya says. He pushes up his glasses with his free hand. 

Tamaki laughs a little, gives Kyouya’s hand a squeeze. “I mean it like… come home with me.”

Then, he kisses Kyouya. They’ve scarcely kissed since their second year of high school, only a couple of times when drunk and Tamaki in an off-again part of his relationship or once when they both were drunk enough to pretend like they wouldn’t remember. Tamaki’s gotten better at it compared to when they first started out. Kyouya hopes the same holds true for him, but his past partner (singular, yes) didn’t complain either. It is familiar the way their lips meet, but Tamaki is faster to move his tongue to the seam of Kyouya’s lips, more incessant to being allowed in. 

Another type of warmth fills Kyouya slowly. To allow himself to be kissed in public feels strange, but the thought disappears when Tamaki’s tongue brushes his. It matters not that there still remains liquid undrunken in their glasses as they make their move to leave. The familiarity aches.

The overcast sky in early morning casts the world a dreary grey. The city isn’t awake just yet, and it feels strangely quiet after all the sound and people the night before. Hungover and on the last remnants of jetlag is a combination Kyouya tries his best to avoid, but somehow he couldn’t drift off again once he woke up. He doesn’t feel as exhausted as he should be, just sluggish. It’s been a couple of days since he arrived

He moves to the kitchen with light steps. Kyouya has borrowed a large knitted jumper from Tamaki’s wardrobe; wool so soft it’s obvious to be of as high quality as one would expect from him, even if the shape is nondescript and could have been from any point of the last century. 

The dog is happy to see him, tail wagging as she follows him around the kitchen. Why on earth Tamaki would opt for a place like this to stay in, not even keeping any staff on hand, is beyond Kyouya. He absentmindedly pets Antoinette, gives her a couple of scratches behind her ears. Dogs like that, right?

He gets the coffee going without too much of an issue. Antoinette sits at the floor by the bowls. He wonders if he’s supposed to refill them. He doesn’t know the routine Tamaki may have set up. In the end Kyouya decides to not risk it with the feed, but water should be no harm and Antoinette seems happy enough to lap it up. 

There’s a dog-eared book on the counter that he picks up after sitting down on the barstool. He reads a couple pages before the coffee is ready, aromatic and rich. Jetlag and hangover alike start to fade with the first few sips.

A press of something cold, wet against the bare skin of his thigh — Antoinette’s nose, the dog once more begging for attention. She’s happy, well-behaved. Quiet, only panting a little and the rhythmic thump of her tail hitting the counter as she wags it. 

“You’re as bad as your owner, aren’t you?” Kyouya asks her. Her tail only moves faster. Kyouya rolls his eyes. One of his hands comes down to rest atop of her head again, petting slowly. The fur is soft and her body warm. In the other hand he holds the coffee cup and he takes a moment to indulge. The beverage helps clear the fog in his mind, just a little. 

Not too much later, Tamaki stumbles into the room — flummoxed for a moment, as if Kyouya showing up had been nothing but a mirage despite his clothes strewn across the bedroom in a clear trail from the door to the bed. Kyouya mirrors the smile Tamaki gives him, of course nothing as large, but for him it may as well be. Tamaki helps himself to the coffee, moving as though he owns the place. He doesn’t, or Kyouya wouldn have had an easier time tracking him down. In a sense, Tamaki is still the master of the house though. Kyouya waits for Tamaki to take a few sips from the cup before he speaks up.

“Allow me one question,” Kyouya says. Tamaki nods. “Why here?”

He says nothing of how he had assumed Tamaki would be burning through his pocket money in Paris or Cannes, Monaco perhaps, or languishing in some château or vineyard. It’s clever, to have opted for something like this and though Kyouya has an inkling as to how this came to be he prefers to know the facts.

“My friend—”

“It’s alright,” Kyouya cuts in, “you can say Éclair.”

Tamaki’s eyes widen, almost comically, at the mention of his ex-fiancée’s name. Kyouya has met her a couple of times in a business setting over the past couple of years, and though she’s never spoken about them remaining in contact it has been easy enough to infer. When someone has Kyouya’s habit of digging for information, it is easily unearthed in full. 

The smile on Tamaki’s lips is lopsided, a little wan. “I presumed you would prefer to not be reminded of her existence.”

“I don’t hold grudges,” Kyouya says. That sounds false to his own ears, and Tamaki smiles a little wider. Kyouya adjusts his glasses and from how the light hits his eyes he can tell they’re glinting white. He should perhaps get a pair with an anti-reflective coat. “I merely keep track of past injustices.”

“That you do.” He sounds almost fond. Kyouya scratches at the bitemark Tamaki left on his neck, pulling heat to the irritated surface. He won’t allow his mind to linger on that tone. He is here with a purpose, to bring Tamaki back to Japan before he makes a fool of himself or loses his inheritance. Whichever comes first.

“As you were saying, your friend..?”

“Éclair, she… this place belongs to a relative of someone on her staff,” Tamaki says. Shrugs. “That’s why it’s not, you know, to the standards we’re used to.”

So she helped him disappear. That explains why it had taken even Kyouya some time to locate him. Perhaps her graciousness should leave them all beholden, that she no longer poses a threat or that Tamaki knows well enough to seek out help when he finds himself in troublesome situations.

“It’s quaint,” Kyouya replies. He hasn’t bothered taking in much of the place if he’s honest. It’s passable, though not something he would ever choose if there were other options where he trusted Tamaki wouldn’t have left in the morning. 

Tamaki’s hands come to rest at his shoulders, warm even through the fabric. He doesn’t knead the muscle there, but even the heat permeating off his touch is enough to have tenseness dissipate and trickly away like the last drops of water from the showerhead when it’s turned off.

“No commentary regarding it being fit for my commoner fantasies?” Tamaki jokes. They both know those fantasies are constructed from his desire to have things be simpler, or simply _different_. There is a reason Tamaki had not run straight into the arms of Éclair to play house, why he hadn’t sought out his own mother instead to be coddled like a child. This in spite of Tamaki having developed a habit of moving through his relationships much how he moves through ideas; it would simplify it too far to say it is due to people representing ideas, and not at all accurate with regards to how deeply Tamaki cares.

He merely finds safety in concepts and allows himself to selfishly pursue them, leading him to come back time after time to safe familiarity of the people who he found closeness with already. It is tempting, Kyouya knows, to give in to those parts of oneself. _It is tempting_ , Kyouya thinks, when Tamaki lightly begins to massage his shoulders, _to consider a life where things are different_. 

**Author's Note:**

> \+ completely out of left field this was written over the course of the past week  
> \+ inspiration for this came from dark academia aesthetics and listening to some atmospheric autumn music, along with one of my fav tropes being “rich private/boarding school kids drama” lmao  
> \+ originally intended to be much shorter, but inspiration just kept coming  
> \+ the caravaggio mention during the renaissance theme party is intentional and a joke lol, i know that he's considered a baroque painter


End file.
